


You Couldn't Bring The Columns Down

by orphan_account



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Depression, Grief/Mourning, Implied/Referenced Attempted Suicide, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, M/M, Non-Graphic Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-27
Updated: 2014-03-27
Packaged: 2018-01-17 06:21:40
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,467
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1377100
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The system is just the same as always and Grantaire was proven right, and from Heaven above and Hell below and Purgatory in between, he did not want to be right.</p>
            </blockquote>





	You Couldn't Bring The Columns Down

**Author's Note:**

> Betaed yet again by the sexy yet subtle pyladeswild!

Grantaire gazes at Enjolras with soft blue eyes as he holds the scissors with shaking hands. Enjolras half-watches him in the bathroom mirror, while Grantaire ignores the reflection in order to gaze at Enjolras’s golden halo of hair.

"Are you sure?" he asks.

Enjolras nods jerkily, as though he is about to cry, before nodding again quickly. He is more determined the second time, and he drives this point into Grantaire with a stubborn, “Yes.”

"If you say so," hums Grantaire. He wishes that he could disagree, but he cannot do anything except what Enjolras ordains anymore. Well, that and drink. He’s been drinking quite a lot nowadays. He wishes he had a drink now. It has long been established that, unlike what Walt Disney would like to tell you, dreams really do _not_ come true.

So instead he pads into the bathroom on unsteady feet. The ceramic tiles are cool under the hardened skin of his toes and he shivers. The bathroom window is open despite the fact that the sun is setting and the late summer breeze is too cold to be comfortable. Normally he would whine at Enjolras for this, but ever since that night, he would let the fallen archangel screw up his life however he liked.

(there was no fight left in him now)

Grantaire sticks the scissors in his jeans pocket for a moment and runs his fingers through Enjolras’s hair, unknotting the tangles from where he hadn’t brushed it properly in months, instead lying on his side and not leaving the house.

"For fuck’s sake, Grantaire, if you won’t do it I’ll do it myself," he finally sighs, reaching for the scissors.

"Fuck no," Grantaire says quickly. "I don’t trust you with sharp objects anymore."

"That was _one time_ -"

Grantaire grabs Enjolras’s bony forearm. “You tried to kill yourself, Enjolras. Forgive me for being fucking terrified that you’re going to try again whenever I leave the flat for shopping.”

Enjolras wrenches his scarred wrists away from Grantaire. “Stop that.”

Grantaire nods, because that’s what he does. He takes the first lock and snips it. Despite how much Grantaire had built this moment up in his head, imagining all the ways it could go wrong, it falls to the floor unceremoniously. A few hairs come loose, but otherwise it just flops. It hits the ground. It is no longer attached to Enjolras’s head in any way, shape or form.

He snips another strand of gold in the exact same way.

And another.

And another.

The slow grating of the scissor blades against each other and the tiny sound they make when they separate Enjolras’s hairs calms Grantaire and lulls him into a repetitive pattern. It’s just cutting, like he did to his wrists in high school and he did to people in the riot, though nobody found him out and nobody remembered those who fell.

Snip.

Snip.

Snip.

When he is finished, there are ten clumps of hair on the floor.

Ten scars on Enjolras’s wrists.

Ten of their closest friends dead in a protest gone wrong.

Grantaire forgets this by leaving a gentle kiss on the top of Enjolras’s spine, and more on his shoulders, and eventually he is on the bed and his legs are being hitched over Enjolras’s shoulders.

He is dying a little bit every time he reaches up to pull Enjolras’s hair, even though _it’s just hair_ ; he shouldn’t have ever been so invested in it; but he was, and now it’s not there like the Musain isn’t there, their friends aren’t there and Enjolras isn’t there, not really, not where it matters.

He will not go down in history.

He is no God.

(he is not jesus, and his apostles are gone gone gone, and that leaves judas to go on into the nothingness)

(grantaire is judas)

(judas is enjolras)

The system is just the same as always and Grantaire was proven right, and from Heaven above and Hell below and Purgatory in between, he did not want to be right.

Enjolras collapses after their shared orgasm and lies, limp and lifeless, in the bed. He allows himself to be held by Grantaire, and allows himself to sleep while Grantaire keeps watch in the dark, dark night.

It doesn’t feel real to walk on the streets anymore, so Grantaire tries to keep his trips out to a minimum. He longs to visit the Musain, but it belongs to some rich family now. He looked in through the window one evening and saw little groups of happy people, laughing and talking and being served by a girl he sometimes saw with Courfeyrac and Éponine and Marius.

Shit.

He forgot.

How could he forget?

It wasn’t Éponine and Courfeyrac, then Marius and his girl. It was Éponine and her girl and Marius and Courfeyrac in a big bundle of love and affection and cuddles and _how could he be so stupid_?

He doesn’t sleep, but instead focuses on loving Enjolras as the blond does.

(it can wait)

The next morning, he locks up all the knives and scissors and razors and pills after giving Enjolras his morning dose and he makes his way to the Musain. It kept its old opening hours, so despite the fact that the world was still waking, the café already has a little group of various people huddled over their coffees and pastries.

The petite girl he saw through the window looks up when she hears the bell ring - (oh god why couldn’t they have replaced it) - and her face drops into a look of shock when she sees Grantaire.

He fights the urge to flee.

"Grantaire?" she says hesitantly. Then she clambers over the countertop in her actual ballet shoes and pulls him into a hug. She is somehow even shorter than him and her chestnut-and-gold hair tickles under his nose.

Grantaire feels completely lost and slightly regretful.

"You _are_ Grantaire, right?" The girl asks, pulling back. "Marius talks about you a lot."

"Marius," Grantaire breathes roughly. "Can I see him?"

Cosette nods, her eyes wide. And, since she’s an angel, she pads around to the corridor that Grantaire remembers as leading to the back room with several other doors leading to other rooms, and yells “Marius!” up the stairs.

After a minute of being uncomfortably stared at by the new regulars, footsteps thud down and a Marius, complete with a bedhead that almost exactly matches Grantaire’s, is in the room. His forearm is even paler than the rest of his body and he keeps it safely away from Grantaire when he throws his arms around him.

"We’ve been so _worried_ ," he sobs. "Last time we saw you was the funeral and now-"

"We should continue this somewhere else," Grantaire says, shifting under everyone’s curious gaze. "Like my apartment. I don’t think I can stay here any longer."

(too many memories)

Enjolras doesn’t seem incredibly happy at seeing Marius, but is still cordial and doesn’t mention the fact that he would prefer Courfeyrac any day. In return, when Marius sees the scars on Enjolras’s wrists, he says nothing but nods in acknowledgement and understanding.

He leaves after a few hours, and Enjolras moves to lie in Grantaire’s arms.

"We should probably go outside one day," he says quietly. His tone blurs the lines between intimacy and weakness.

"Only if you want," Grantaire replies, with immeasurable gentleness.

(the ghosts must be put to rest one day)

(maybe tomorrow)

(maybe next year)

(maybe only one of them will be left to do it)

(maybe)

(maybe)

Enjolras can sometimes be found in the kitchen. It’s rarer than the bedroom and rarer than the living room, but it has happened on occasion. He looks through the fridge and cupboards sometimes, and even less frequently finds something to eat.

A few days after Marius, Grantaire returns home to find Enjolras attempting to cook a simple spaghetti sauce and tagliatelli at the same time.

(maybe)

One night, Enjolras kisses Grantaire softly. They’re in the bathroom again, and Enjolras’s hair is growing back enough to curl around his ears. Grantaire twirls the short locks around his fingers, and Enjolras sighs with a slight smile that makes Grantaire long for a pencil in a way that he hadn’t felt since the first few days of June.

They lie in bed together, naked but not allowing arousal. Their kisses are gentle and simple expressions of emotions that neither will name.

(maybe)

One December morning, Grantaire wakes up to a cold, empty bed. He searches through every room frantically, because _shit he thought Enjolras was getting better_ , until he finds the blonde in the living room, fully dressed with one of Grantaire’s old green coats next to him, and tying up his shoes.

"I want to go to the Musain today."

 

**Author's Note:**

> If you find anything unclear, please tell me and I'll try and make it clearer for you.


End file.
